


Subside

by ms_adventure



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Carterwood, F/F, Masturbation, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Sex, Power Play, Self-Bondage, Sexual Fantasy, Sub Dottie, Verbal Bondage, dom peggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_adventure/pseuds/ms_adventure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="font-serif">
  <p>As she contemplates what she does want from Peggy, Dottie is gratified by the privacy afforded her in solitary confinement.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Takes place after s2e1: <i>The Lady in the Lake</i>.<br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Subside

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _We bring a message from the long black length of body:_   
>  _"Subside," it begs and begs._   
> 
> 
> — Elizabeth Bishop, "From the Country to the City"
> 
> * * *

They don't keep her shackled in the cell. It's meant as a kindness. But Dottie doesn't sleep well without the familiar embrace of metal encircling her wrist. She lies flat, her left arm extended overhead, back of the hand pressed to the wall, fingers relaxed. An approximation, merely habit, this reflex of rest. 

Still this solitary room, provisioned only with bare essentials — rich in privacy, what little else it offers, and all this still more than she would expect,— this cell is less accommodating than the interrogation room and Agent Thompson.  
          Poor Agent Thompson, so obviously ill-equipped. The man was clearly intimidated by her, blustering to hide his fears, his insecurities. She had used Peggy, of course, to get under his skin. Too easy. And yet, Dottie had been sincere when she told him that Peggy would have known. Peggy, who knows so much. She knows the the game they play, knows the rules as if she were born to it. Agent Thompson knows only violence, and in that he cannot match her.  
          Peggy understands all too keenly the power in gentleness, shows what softness can do to a human heart; Peggy, who, despite her prudent reluctance to involve herself with the base graspings of humanity, can love completely, and without fear. 

Girls like Peggy: _“Raised with perfect skin and silver spoons,”_ she had taunted. Boarding schools and undaunted courage. Friends. The childhood denied her. Now she could — she had — walked like Peggy, talked like Peggy, worn her clothes, her nail varnish, her lipstick. But it hadn’t given her what she wanted.

* * *

Her lips were pliant, yielding. This is what haunts Dottie. The ghost of Peggy’s kiss — the soft surprise resurfaces as a tingling, anamnesis-like upon her own mouth. She strokes her lips, as though to wipe away the sensation, but her fingers cannot overcome it. The feeling of Peggy’s lips as they met hers.  
          Then that slow collapse into helplessness as the drug took effect. The way she clung to Dottie, grasping her wrists. The weight of her. Her strength, defiant of her impending unconsciousness. Her disorientation as the world spun around them.  
          Dottie still relishes the power of the memory. Peggy Carter, SSR Agent, war hero — the woman who had uncovered her past; who met her as an equal, undeterred by limited training; who, despite everything, is still not afraid of her — this marvel defenseless before her, subject to her whims. What she could have done to Peggy then.  
          Standing over her inert body, switchblade in hand. Ready to slit her throat. Or stab her through the heart. Or to cut away all the clothing that shielded Peggy’s perfect skin. If only she hadn’t been interrupted.  
          She could have had Peggy in her underthings handcuffed to her bed. Free to discover her most intimately. Watch her wake groggily to Dottie’s switchblade depriving her of her modesty. The interrogation. The pain. The arousal. Finding Peggy slick to the touch.

No resistance. 

 

No — Where’s the fun in that?

 

Dottie keeps her left hand against the wall. She imagines Peggy’s manacle grip pinning it there, more comforting, more secure than cold metal. And so much more obscene. The force of Peggy’s fierce desire communicated through the pressure on Dottie’s wrist. All her weight and strength ensuring Dottie’s captivity. What would Peggy’s kisses be like then? Abrupt, like a knock-out blow; like Dottie had kissed her in the Griffith?  
          Could she be tender with Dottie? Stroke her, tease her? Peggy nuzzling her neck, eyelashes fluttering at her jawline. Her idle hand exploring her breasts, her ribs, her stomach, her thighs; fingers delicately traversing the body, awakening Dottie to unchanneled lusts. And Dottie allows her, allows this manipulation for pure desire’s sake.  
          It is a singular experience.  
          Still her hand remains firmly overhead, the effort keeping it there so determined. The rest of her body so light. Dottie is floating as Peggy’s wandering hand artfully flenses her with those cinnamon-varnished nails, leaving desire-lines scored into her skin. She is wet with wanting. And Peggy’s fingers are inside of her. Dottie gasps into her open mouth. Thrusts into her palm.  
          Peggy pulls Dottie’s wrist away from the wall and intertwines their fingers. She brings it carefully to those pliant, yielding lips. Kisses it. And then bites — merciless, the ligaments rippling under her teeth. Dottie can feel her smile through the sensation. Then Peggy is kissing her again, stroking the scar, interrupted now with the indentations of her bite. And still Peggy’s other hand is coaxing her to orgasm.  
          She returns Dottie’s wrist to its place at the wall.  
          “Stay, darling,” Peggy murmurs in her ear, “Exactly as you are. I mean it.” Then, her eyes serious and commanding, she stares down at Dottie. Neither looks away when Peggy says, “Don’t move,” and, for the first time, she releases Dottie’s wrist.

          

“Oh Peg,” she whimpers. She has let her own fingers caress her body, a poor substitute for the touch she craves; but Dottie’s needs are beyond immaterial fantasies. 

Peggy is peering up from between her thighs when she gives the order, “Stay.” Her breath is warm over Dottie’s damp skin. She shivers. Then Peggy’s mouth is on her cunt. Eager. Tonguing her with unabashed fervor. Her hands vice-like on Dottie’s thighs, forcing them to part wider, pushing her open. Peggy, of the pliant, yielding mouth, devouring her.

When Dottie climaxes, it leaves her shaking. 

 

But no. Peggy won't love her — not like that. Never like that.  
          No one has ever touched her for her own pleasure. Not without wanting something for themselves. Her obedience, her loyalty, her body’s surrender to their prowess.  
          No one has ever once thought to demand her love. To believe her capable. Only defenseless creatures beg. 

But her hand has freed itself of the wall. 

 

Peggy hurls herself at Dottie, slams her wrist back to its proper place, slaps her across the cheek, grabs her chin, forces her to look Peggy in the face, shoves her knee into Dottie’s cunt. It is brutal, swift, unhesitating — the Peggy she expects, anticipates.  
          “I simply cannot trust you, Dottie,” says Peggy coldly, all gentleness gone, “Haven't you learned that you can't escape me?”  
          Dottie moves against her; grips her tightly, pulls her in and twists, forcing Peggy to roll beneath her with the momentum. Straddling her waist, Dottie smiles down at her, “I’m not trying to escape.”  
          This is their love letter: the push of two bodies for dominion. Neither one willing to submit, to subside. Her hand is at Peggy’s throat, her mouth on Peggy’s breast, Peggy’s nails gouging her ribs, Peggy’s thigh pressed hard against her. She wants so much to see this woman helpless before her. Captive in the little death or the big sleep. Thoroughly bested…

* * *

Peggy will not come for her. Not willingly. 

Dottie recognizes now that it was the challenge that enthralled her, the merry dance, the matched game of intellect and will that kept Peggy’s attention. In her incarceration she has been abandoned. The resolution to the struggle cut short, the thrill of capture denied. Peggy has foregone the final confrontation, the victory of obtaining her confession.  
           Agent Thompson is no substitute. He does not know her as Peggy does. Abject puerile man, his attentions are undeniably moot; he has already lost.  
           The FBI cannot hold her. Her imprisonment will end. Soon.

She hopes Agent Thompson will give Peggy her remembrances.


End file.
